Brand New Day
by TrueThought
Summary: After the events of 'Starcrossed', the Justice League seems to be falling apart at the seams. That is, until they are suddenly dragged into a parallel dimension by the last survivor of a group called the Justice Society. Now involved in protecting the daughter of a dead hero and fighting evil versions of themselves, there are also issues of romance and team spirit to consider.
1. Prologue

Turn the clock to zero boss,  
>The river's wide, we'll swim across;<br>Started up a brand new day.

Elswhere, fifteen years ago.

The rain was pelting down out of the grey sky, as if a perfect reflection of his mood. Sombre, frustrated and going over and over the sad truth in his head, the young man turned off the street to walk through the shopping centre. It was quiet in here, despite the rain and the busy Saturday morning rush because, in the wake of the new mall opening down the road, the shops that had once been here had moved away. The place was a silent graveyard, old promotional posters and décor remaining to mark what had once filled the empty spaces behind glass windows.

There was no one here to hear his angry shout of despair. Probably a good thing. They'd never understand why. No one in the courtroom had.

"What's the matter Mr Wayne?" they'd all be asking. "Aren't you glad the man responsible has been punished? Don't you want to see justice done?"

He hadn't been able to make them understand, so he'd given up trying. He'd slipped a check under the defendant's front door though, with a note to his wife, apologising as best he could and assuring her that he knew her husband was innocent. It probably wouldn't help that much, the money wouldn't go far enough to make this disaster easier to bear.

"Money is cold son," his father always said. "We have to find a way to make money heartfelt."

At least he _had_ always said that. Until two weeks ago when somebody had put bullets through the brains of him and his wife. His parents shot down in front of his eyes. They'd said goodbye to him, thanked him for the lovely lunch and turned to walk away down the alley towards their car. Then he heard the shots.

The whole thing was a mistake. It was a ridiculous exercise, pointless because it had come up with the wrong conclusion and one man would suffer for the mistakes – or the negligence – of those higher than him in fortune. Gotham City was one great big farce, the young man decided. Its courts were a joke, and its government wasn't much better. After that it didn't much matter whether the police were concentrating on their jobs or not. He'd laughed at first, at the absurdity of it all. People had speculated whether he was losing his mind. He'd stopped laughing when the sentence was passed; although he hadn't realised it, he had never fully prepared himself – never fully believed – that the farce would play out to its end, that some last minute reprieve wouldn't drag them all back to a sane reality.

They hadn't wanted to arrest the real people behind the whole thing. That was why the innocent victim had been sacrificed. And the whole time he had felt like Lear's fool, making people laugh by speaking the truth that was too distasteful to think of on their own. One of the lines from that play had been running around in his head for the last few hours: "Truth's a dog that must to kennel".

Because they _were_ laughing at him. Those who had got away with their crimes, those who were now safe and all the rest, who suspected he was going mad with grief and thought it funny.

He was looking down at his feet as he walked and it was the way that the tiled floor turned green around them, quite suddenly, that made him stop and look up. He'd reached one end of a long shop front, empty of merchandise. The windows had been covered in wide strips of brightly coloured plastic film. Green, red, yellow, orange, blue and royal purple, before the cycle started again – three times before the shop front ended and the next one began.

The young man looked down at the white shirt he was wearing under his dark suit jacket. Only it wasn't white now – under the light from the shop window (not yet stripped of its functioning bulbs) it was lime green. A smile began to form on his face. He stepped forward and watched the light and the colour of his shirt change to red. Then, with another step, to yellow. He jumped across orange, into blue and twirled with his arms outstretched. He took a running start and slid across the polished floor, skidding to a halt under the last purple section of light. His body twisted to halt his slide across the floor he looked into the window at his reflection, bathed in its purple light.

The court of Gotham City was full of fools and madmen. It was a farce. But if that was what they wanted…if they wanted a mockery of justice, all they needed was a fool. A man to speak sanity from behind the mask of a clown.

The only man who would seek proper justice in this city, the only one who would fight for the innocent, would be a clown. That was the joke.

So he'd have to be a clown.

XXXXX

The bright sunlight hit his eyes the minute he stepped out of the revolving doors of Lexcorp. The next second his eyesight was further impaired by the flashes of the multitude of press cameras.

"Mr Luthor! Mr Luthor!"

"Can you give me a quote –"

"What's the purpose of this meeting with the President?"

"Is it true you requested it?"

"What do you hope to gain from it?"

Shepherded by his security guards towards the waiting car, Alexander Luthor gave them all a bright and amused smile.

"Do none of you have anything more important to be looking into?"

They'd have to be content with that. He'd been handling crowds of reporters since he was eighteen. He knew they suspected something and were digging for information. After all, what reason could he have for requesting a meeting with the President?

"Mr Luthor, which overseas contracts are you planning on discussing with the President?"

He clocked the question, spoken by a female voice raised above the others. So someone _had_ swallowed the pretence where all the others had dismissed it as a cover. There was always one. He shook his head slightly and waved a hand, as an indication that he wasn't going to give another response. There was a sound of scuffling movement and he found his path blocked by a brunette with dark eyes and a determined look on her face.

"You _are_ going to the White House to discuss Lexcorp's overseas contracts, aren't you?"

Alex had to smile. He recognised her as the woman who had asked that last question; he'd seriously misjudged her. In fact, like all the rest, she hadn't for a moment believed the cover story. But she was asking him the straight question nonetheless – 'is it true?' – as her way towards a more definite indication of secrecy. In effect, she was daring him to lie.

"Miss…?"

She held out her hand, "Lois Lane; Daily Planet."

Ah, the Pulitzer Prize winner. Rumoured to be adept at asking difficult questions and for having a flair for investigative journalism of the dangerous kind. Alex reassessed her expression. Her determined look was quite arresting.

"Miss Lane, much as I would like to answer your questions, I am running late – and in any case, I don't think you will like my answers."

She didn't move, "You never know; I might love them."

He met her gaze steadily. _Would you?_ he wondered. _Would you really love to hear about my visitor. My visitor from another world? The only one of his kind?_ _From my experience the rest of the inhabitants of this planet would not be happy to hear about him; what about you would make you different from everybody else?_

Perhaps against his better judgement, he acquiesced to his sudden desire to find out, "Then, if you wouldn't mind a slight delay, perhaps you would like to hear my answers over dinner tonight?"

He half expected her to refuse. Given time to prepare, he would have like to have been able to come up with a better way of phrasing his offer. To him it sounded arrogant.

But he was pleasantly surprised once more when she smiled and said, "I'd like that very much." The determination remained on her face.

"If you'll give your address to my secretary, I'll pick you up at 6.30 tonight."

He gave her a smile and walked past her to his car, feeling her eyes on the back of his head as he got in.

XXXXX

Ten years later.

It began as a low rumble, growing steadily and relentlessly until it was a roar of noise that rushed down the access corridor at them. Then, as the sound of the explosion reached them, so did the shockwaves. The whole building seemed to lurch beneath them, throwing the two heroes to the ground.

The one wearing the bright red suit and lime green waistcoat got to his feet and straightened his collar, checking the flower in his buttonhole and the lightweight block of metal in the harness on his back.

"You know, I miss the days when people rang doorbells."

Alexander Luthor climbed to his feet as well, "Agreed. They're inside the Warehouse now." His companion's jokes had become a kind of language of their own over the years, one that his teammates had become accustomed to the possibility of hearing at any time.

At that moment a klaxon sounded. Behind them they began to hear the sharp clang of heavy metal doors slamming shut.

"Emergency lockdown."

The Jester mockingly checked his watch, "And we're still eleven seconds quicker on the uptake than the computer. Got to hang onto the small things in life Alex."

"Indeed," Luthor said turning away, "I wouldn't say the lockdown will slow them down at all though."

Another, slightly smaller explosion was carried down the access corridor.

"Probably not, no," the Jester agreed with a slight shrug before following his friend.

They ran on, the sounds of pursuit getting ever closer behind them. Luthor could feel the sweat running down his forehead and inside the gloves of his suit. They managed to reach the last door before it closed (something wrong with the mechanism – he'd been meaning to fix it for weeks) and ducked inside the main Warehouse floor.

He'd just reached the lift when he realised that the Jester wasn't with him. Turning back he saw that his friend had stopped, in the middle of the floor, standing facing the door through which they'd come.

"Oh no," Luthor groaned, "Jester please –"

"You'd better get going Alex," the Jester replied. His voice was horribly sullen, all traces of cheeriness had vanished.

"We're not losing anyone else," Luthor retorted. "Dammit man, there's only the three of us left!"

The Jester turned his face towards him, "I know. But what we're here for is to make sure they don't find Brainy. Because they don't know he's here yet, and they don't have to."

He cut Luthor off as he opened his mouth to speak, "If we don't stall them down here somehow then you won't have the time to save him, will you? Unless you have any other ideas that is?"

Luthor swallowed hard, "I can't lose anyone else. Please don't do this."

The Jester laughed aloud, "Come off it Alex! There's no way either of us was going to make it out of here alive anyway! Brainy knew it was a risk when he asked us to break into S.T.A.R. Labs. We were dead the minute they knew we'd been there. I'm just going a little sooner."

He stopped laughing. His white face was sorrowful, his red mouth forming a gentle smile, "Get on up there you idiot. Go save our friend."

Luthor forced himself into the lift, closing the doors behind him. The Jester reached up to his shoulder and flipped a small catch on the harness he was wearing. The harness loosened and the block of metal dropped out. At the same time the pressure on the small button on one side of it was released and a handle about forty five centimetres in length unfolded. As it fell the Jester caught the handle deftly in one hand.

The door burst inwards, revealing a woman in the opening. She had long red hair, golden armour, a heavy-looking mace in one hand and huge grey wings. They flapped open, extended to their full span, half blocking out the light from the corridor. It was meant to be intimidating.

The Jester held up his free hand, almost like a gesture of surrender, "I know; I know what you're going to say. But just give this one a whirl."

He allowed himself the broad and somewhat manic grin, "What noise did the bird-lady make when she was hit in the stomach?"

The mace came down in a broad arc, aiming for his head. He ducked to the right before stepping forward, punching her in the chest with the flat of the hammer. She impacted with the wall behind her with a muffled "_oof!"_

The Jester stood over her, "No, it was a little more nasal than that. Close though."

The woman snarled at him, levering herself away from the wall and beginning to get to her feet. He had seconds to spare. He could take her out right now. Of course that was why…

"And here…we…go," he murmured, slowly turning around.

Syndicate members had teams of people beneath them. They never hunted alone.

The Jester took a deep breath. He didn't have seconds anymore.

"Never let it be said that I ran out of jokes."

XXXXX

Brainiac 5, standing at a workbench covered in parts and dog-eared blueprints, heard the screams from somewhere downstairs and his blood ran cold. He'd known that Luthor and Jester had been followed here. He'd been hoping that their pursuers wouldn't catch up with them. Now one of them had paid the price for his naiveté.

He swung round as Luthor appeared out of the lift, "Did you get it?"

Neither of them needed to say anything about what had just happened downstairs. They'd been friends for ten years. Each knew what the other was feeling. Luthor opened a compartment in the wrist of his suit and pulled out a dull metal cylinder. Despite its small size, it was surprisingly heavy.

"This is what you wanted?"

Brainy took it from him and turned back to the workbench behind him, "Yes, this is all we need. We're getting reinforcements Alex. All we need to do is –"

His friend had walked up behind him as he was talking and now struck him across the back of the head with all his strength. Brainy crumpled to the floor, the metal cylinder rolling away from his hand.

Luthor picked it up and put it carefully among the other parts laid out on the workbench.

"I'm sorry Brainy. They can't be allowed to kill us all. You have to live."

He dragged him across the room, opened the capsule wired up the machinery in the tangled mass of wires and rafters that ran across the roof and placed him inside. Sealing it up, he pressed a button on his wrist pad and the capsule slowly ascended into the rafters. Turning back to the workbench he gathered all the parts and the dog-eared blueprints, piling them into a lead-lined box. The walls of the Warehouse had all been lined with lead themselves some time before; this improvement had also covered the vault they kept their most important (and dangerous) artefacts, weapons and inventions. Putting the box in here, Luthor sealed it with the access codes punched into his wrist pad. If Ultraman wanted to search the place, he' probably not think twice about just another section of wall that he couldn't see through.

Two figures burst through the floor behind him. Luthor spun round to face them, his heart pumping against his ribs. Instinctively, forgetting that fighting on alone was pointless, he let off an energy blast at them. The Thanagarian and her metahuman lackey dodged the attack with ease as they rushed across the room towards him. They were irritated.

In the precious seconds before they reached him, Luthor thought of the Jester; of Brainy, safe in the rafters; of the beautiful reporter who had agree to have dinner with him. Who _had_ been so different from anyone else he had ever known.

_I'm coming Lois_, he thought, _I'm coming_.

Then the world around him was ripped away from his consciousness by searing pain, blanketing his vision and dragging an agonized scream from his lungs as everything turned crimson.

Then blackness.

* * *

><p><strong>A.N.<strong> I seem to have a thing about using song titles with JLA stories. In this case 'Brand New Day' by Sting is one of my favorite songs and entirely relevant as a title. In addition I had it going round in my head while writing this. If this were a musical, that first scene with the Jester would have been a dance number, Gene Kelly style, to that song.

Also I have (finally) managed to write in, what I believe to be, more standard fanfiction layout (in terms of the spacing and section divisions) - please let me know if I've got it wrong or something.

This story was kind of a result of wondering what the alternate Luthor's team from the Crisis On Two Earths film was like. I always loved that scene with him and the Jester at the start of the movie. Then a few elements from other places began to creep in, as you'll see.

I own nothing - all characters belong to DC. Apart from that, enjoy and please review!


	2. Chapter 1

Here; five years later.

The night air rolled off the Gotham docks across the city, shifting the clouds slowly along behind the glowing silhouette of a bat projected onto the night sky. Only a few months ago the sky had been filled with Thanagarian soldiers; tonight it was empty.

Superman spotted the dark figure crouched on the arm of a construction crane which towered over a wide area scattered with rubble. Somebody was going to put up a tower block or something, reaching up into the sky.

"Must be very quiet in Metropolis," Batman said, by way of greeting, as the Kryptonian landed beside him.

Superman shrugged, "In comparison to what you and I have seen – it could be worse."

"Quiet enough for you to fly all the way over to Gotham."

"It's not exactly a time-consuming journey, not for me."

"How's Lois?"

It was hard to tell whether he was asking just as a platitude or whether he was genuinely interested.

"She's fine."

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Superman smiled involuntarily, "Never much time for small-talk with you."

"Technically I'm on patrol."

He glanced at the signal illuminated against the sky, "Then shouldn't you be getting that?"

Batman shrugged, "Robin's answering it. I was going to join him. But I thought you wanted to talk."

He straightened up, "Depending on what Gordon needs, I may not have a lot of time to spare, so get on with it."

Superman nodded, "Alright. Have you seen Green Lantern recently?"

"In Gotham? How likely would that be?"

"Bruce, he hasn't been on the Watchtower in months. Not since the new one was built. In fact I don't remember him being around much during the construction process; _you_ were around more than he was during the construction process."

"He's taking the whole thing with Hawkgirl badly."

"Aren't we all? Diana still won't actually mention her by name."

"Diana is an Amazon. I wouldn't expect much by the way of regret and forgiveness, she holds loyalty at a premium."

"Again, don't we all?" Superman sighed, "I think it's more than Shayera Bruce. I'm not sure John believes in it anymore."

"You mean the League?"

"Yes; not the idea of justice of course – I'm sure he hasn't spent this whole time sitting in his apartment moping – but the idea of the team. In fact I'm worried it might fall apart. Even Flash has this air of reluctance about him these days."

Batman looked sidelong at him, "Please tell me that you didn't come all the way down here to ask me to go and talk to GL? That's not necessarily going to magically fix the problem and if that's what you want I'm the last person you should be asking."

Superman took a deep breath, "No, I need to ask you something else – not much, just a small favour. I was hoping I could persuade you to put in more of an appearance on the Watchtower."

Batman didn't react for a while. Then he said, "Clark, having me there isn't going to boost morale. You're the inspirational one, remember?"

"That's what you said; and I know you said you were only going to be part-time. But bear in mind that – for J'onn and Diana – the League is their home. If it falls apart, they don't have anywhere else to go. And Flash seems less enthusiastic but I know that's only because he's missing it all."

Batman didn't speak, so he carried on, "I just think it would be good for them to know that you still want to be a part of this team, that the team is still there to be a part of. The way things are now, it's almost as if you're avoiding us."

There was silence. Superman held his breath. Under the cowl he knew Bruce was thinking it over but he was waiting for him to refuse.

"You've got my number," Batman said eventually. "Feel free to call me if you need me."

It was agreement, heavily disguised.

Superman smiled, "Thanks old friend. I may take you up on that very soon."

As the Kryptonian flew away Batman let out a long sigh.

"I wasn't avoiding _all_ of you," he muttered.

XXXXX

Elsewhere.

Courtney Whitmore hadn't been up in her parent's attic for years. Partly because her mother had never really used it. Neither had her father. Although he had collected a lot of old books during his lifetime, they had remained on numerous bookshelves around the house, squeezed into the oddest corners and stacked up against the walls when there was no more shelf space. He'd always said that you never knew when you'd need to look something up. All his tools were kept out in the garage where he had worked.

He had died five years ago. Everything he'd collected or owned had been packed in boxes and stored in the garage.

"Save us having to pack all the tools up," her mother had said, "since they're all hanging up in there anyway."

DIY was not her mother's strong suit, so the tools remained on their hooks. Over the years Courtney had often found herself going out the garage and rummaging through the boxes for a book or two – usually the big dictionary that was once, a long time ago, too heavy for her to lift.

Now she was going up into the attic, because she'd looked in the garage in vain. Her mother, before going out shopping, had jokingly remarked that, this time next week, she'd be tearfully looking through old photo albums and picture of Courtney as a baby. It was the nostalgia stirred up by the fact that her daughter was off to college soon. And it seemed Courtney had caught some of that nostalgia, because she had decided to try and find those albums and have a look for herself. A thorough search of the garage had turned up nothing – in fact she was having difficulty remembering every seeing photos of herself as a baby, apart from the framed ones on the living room mantelpiece.

Opening the attic door she was surprised to find that the room was strangely empty. There were cobwebs coating every surface, since no one had brought a duster up here for years, but only two large trunks had been stored under the eaves. Nothing else was visible.

The first trunk contained several albums. The first two were a collection of her parents' wedding photographs and her as a small baby. She spent some time looking through them, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the trunk. Then she counted the other albums in the box and decided that it would be better to look at them downstairs, in a better light than the one afforded by the bare bulb suspended over her head.

Carefully avoiding banging her head on the ceiling she managed to get the trunk to the top of the ladder, pausing for a moment to try and decide whether it was worth trying to get the whole thing down, or if it would be best to take the albums down individually. As she crouched there she felt her eyes straying back to the other trunk in the attic. Her curiosity had been peaked. What exactly was it that had been stored up in the attic, when everything else had ended up in the garage? She crawled back over to the other trunk, opened the hasps and lifted the lid, which squeaked on its hinges.

Her eyes were illuminated by a strange golden glow coming from inside. Suddenly, everything made a lot more sense.

XXXXX

Amanda Waller, head of the United States Government's top secret research department, codenamed CADMUS, grimaced as she took a first tentative sip of the instant coffee she'd got from the machine in the foyer. The people who'd drawn up the budget hadn't been very interested in the supply of caffeine to the employees.

Heading back to her office, she glanced across the room at the numerous booths scattered about. Here in the administration wing of the building there was the constant clatter of fingers applying pressure to keyboards. Most of the research was done in the laboratories on the lower levels of the building. All of them were above ground, but then again 'top secret' referred only to the rest of the ordinary population. Essentially CADMUS was the Government's personal version of S.T.A.R. Labs, only tolerated by the _real _powers-at-be because – supposedly – they weren't researching anything important.

Reaching her office door she opened it onto a scene of chaos. The place had been ransacked; papers tossed hither and thither now lay around the room, wafted by the breeze that drifted in through the open window that had been closed when she'd gone for coffee. Waller was not surprised. She was rarely surprised.

It had to have come sometime, because underneath the minor research projects that they placed in full view of the metahumans as a front, CADMUS was an information gathering centre – had been for five years. They couldn't have kept it a secret forever; the Crime Syndicate had a criminal genius in their ranks. It was unlikely that they'd shut CADMUS down – information gathering wasn't a problem for anyone, as long as each side knew what the other did. Clearly, until they'd ransacked the place, this had not been entirely the case. But why sneak in and steal the information when they could march in and take it by force without any fear of repercussions? It didn't change much but it was puzzling behaviour.

It took her five minutes to know what files had been looked at and, consequently, which ones were missing. She didn't bother to sort them just yet, instead picking up the phone and asking her secretary to set up a secure line.

"It's me," she said, once the connection was made. "I think you should know; by the end of business today, they are going to know about the girl. Whatever you're going to do, you'd better do it fast."


	3. Chapter 2

Here.

The Watchtower's new teleportation system (supplied by Wayne Enterprises, though without anything appearing on company records) whirred into life and Batman materialized on the satellite's main observation deck. Superman was waiting for him; behind him Bruce could see the figure of J'onn Jo'nnz surveying the banks of monitor screens along the far wall. The Martian seemed to have settled into their new base very well.

"What's the emergency?"

He then noticed that Superman was grinning from ear to ear.

"Well the turkey's almost done, so you're just in time!"

Bruce frowned, "Turkey?"

"It's Thanksgiving!"

He stared at him, "Tell me you're joking."

Clark leaned in to whisper to him out of J'onn's hearing, "Show some enthusiasm, remember? You did say I could call you if I needed you."

"You know perfectly well I meant _emergencies_ Clark. _This_ does not count as an emergency."

Behind them the teleporter whirred into life again and, turning round, the pair of them beheld John Stewart, Earth's representative in the Green Lantern Corps. Clark practically jumped forward to greet him.

"Good to see you GL! Diana and Wally are already upstairs."

John nodded at Batman, "Bruce."

"How're things?" Bruce asked.

"Going well." He looked back at Clark, "Upstairs is it?"

"Second on the right."

John turned and headed towards the lift. Bruce looked round at Clark.

"You can be quite devious when you want to be."

Clark grinned back at him, "You forget, I'm married to Lois. Come on, let's go up. You coming J'onn?"

The Martian turned his attention away from his vigil, "I'll be up in a few minutes. I'm just checking the systems. Hello Bruce."

"J'onn," Bruce gave him a small wave across the large room as he followed Clark.

In the lift Clark said, "You see what I mean about GL."

"Yes."

"I mean, he's really reluctant to work with us – spend time with us even. He just seems to want to be on his own. I mean, since it has been several months since…shouldn't he want to be around us again at some point?"

"It has been a while."

"I have to be honest, I'm glad it wasn't you that this happened to; you'd probably stay in that cave forever."

"Thanks."

He allowed Clark a small smile to show he wasn't offended, "So, what's the plan? You get them all in a room together and hope that strengthens the team spirit?"

"I think there needs to be a sense of coming together. They need a reason to work as a team – at least GL does. And as I said, the rest of them need to feel that there _is_ a team left. Well, that's certainly the case with J'onn, seeing as how he views us as his family. I'm not entirely sure what's wrong with Diana, but since she's in exile from Themyscira, I wouldn't be surprised if she feels the same way. Since Thanksgiving was coming up I thought I might as well give it a try."

"In her case I wouldn't jump to conclusions," Bruce said quietly.

"Well you try talking to her then."

The lift doors opened onto a long corridor lined with doors. These were the living quarters, added into the original design for long nights on monitor duty or just for those members of the team who lived on the satellite permanently. The second door on the right was open. Beyond it was a round room filled in the centre by a table, with six chairs set out around it, although it was big enough to hold seven. In one wall there was the door into the kitchen and from this Diana, Princess of the Amazons, appeared, carrying a tray of plates, glasses and cutlery. She smiled when she saw them. Bruce had to hide a grimace; he'd nearly managed to forget how lovely she was when she smiled.

"Bruce! It's wonderful to see you!" Having put the tray down, she came round the table and hugged him, "When did you get here?"

"Less than five minutes ago." His voice remained flat, betraying no excitement of its own at this meeting. As she pulled away from the embrace he could see her disappointment and he felt angry with himself.

"I'll see how they're doing in the kitchen," Clark said, apparently unaware of his friends' emotions or discomfort, "you two can set the table."

He breezed out of the room, leaving them, relatively speaking, alone. Desperately casting about for something to say their eyes suddenly met, leaving them looking straight at each other, unable – or unwilling – to break the connection. Bruce could see himself reflected in her dark eyes. He could remember how it felt as he'd clutched her hand in fear of being discovered by their pursuers, of her lips pressing against his own. It had been a split-second decision in a desperate attempt to remain hidden in a crowded room. He was quite sure neither of them had expected to _enjoy_ it.

Somewhat hoarsely, having eventually found his voice, he said, "Have you got everything on that tray?"

She nodded, turning back to the table, "Could you put out the plates?" From her voice no one would have known that there was anything the matter.

Bruce stepped forward to help – then stopped, glancing around the room. There was a certain tang in the air that he'd tasted before but couldn't quite place where. He looked over at Diana to see if she'd noticed it. She still had her back to him but he could tell something was wrong. There was the faintest blue light dancing all over her. There was a sound now too; a crackling, growing louder and more strained with every second.

Bruce leaped forward with a shout of alarm as recognition struck, "Diana!"

As she turned his hand grabbed hers and, as he looked down, he could see the same light covering his own body, much clearer and brighter now. The crackling sound burst in a loud pop that set his eardrums ringing. The light flashed almost unbearably and both of them felt a lurching tug to one side. Trying to ignore the feeling that his stomach turning over, Bruce gripped Diana's hand tightly and was pleased to feel her squeeze his hand in return. She'd recognised the smell too, as well as the sensation. It wasn't quite the same as it had been before, but in essence it had all the hallmarks of a trans-dimensional portal.

XXXXX

Because of the bright light, it took a few seconds (after they felt space and time come to a standstill around them) to adjust to their current, rather dingy surroundings. They appeared to be alone in a huge old warehouse. Boxes filled most of the floor space. Some were intact. Others had been ripped into or smashed, their contents spilling across the floor; most of them had apparently contained brightly coloured cloths and toys. One corner, apparently abandoned, had been populated by a cluster of sofas and comfy chairs. Some kitchen units had been fitted along the wall and a table with seven chairs around it was nearby.

The only other clear space was in the opposite corner. While everything else was covered in cobwebs and in a state of serious disrepair or destruction, this area had been carefully maintained. The ceiling lights were on in this corner. The table, built close to the ground, was covered in tools and papers, all neatly arranged around its edges. A huge, somewhat out of date, computer server had been plugged into the wall, powering the four monitor screens that had been bolted onto the wall.

Bruce let go of Diana's hand, readying himself for an attack as they heard the sound of movement from somewhere in the shadows. Diana was more vocal.

"Come out where we can see you!" she shouted.

She was answered by silence.

"Come out!" she repeated. "You should know that you are seriously outnumbered."

"I agree," the voice came from one of the darkened corners behind them, "two against one are not favourable odds, for me at least. However," he continued calmly, "I must confess to being somewhat confused. There were supposed to be six of you."

The two of them spun round to confront the figure appearing from the shadows. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with pale red hair and a short beard. He was wearing the remains of a suit - somewhere he had discarded the tie and jacket – which he had clearly been wearing for some sort of construction work; it was covered in spots of paint and streaks of dust.

He would have been of about Bruce's height, if he'd been standing up. Instead he rolled across the floor towards them, appearing under the dim light in a wheelchair he controlled with a joystick on the right arm-rest.

"I am Alexander Luthor," he said, "and I desperately need your help."


End file.
